


As You Mean to Go On

by yuletide_archivist



Category: Love Actually (2003)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-12-16
Updated: 2008-12-16
Packaged: 2018-01-25 03:02:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1628156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yuletide_archivist/pseuds/yuletide_archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What comes after.</p>
            </blockquote>





	As You Mean to Go On

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much to mrsronweasley, soupytwist, and kristiinthedark for their amazingly helpful betas. You call caught different and important things, and I adore you for making this story much better than it would have otherwise been. Particular thanks to mrsronweasley for the title.
> 
> Written for Daluci

 

 

There never had been a time - and Joe knew it - when the most important person in Billy Mack's life wasn't Billy Mack. But the thing about it was, that was all right with Joe. Billy Mack was an extraordinarily likable fellow and if he was having fun, chances were everyone around him was, too. You couldn't do otherwise - you stood no chance. One flash of his smile - not devastatingly handsome, or even striking, or what one would call remarkable - but still, one flash of that Billy Mack grin, self-deprecating in the best possible way, and everyone was his best friend. Everyone had known him forever, and everyone, anyone, could spare a few quid to buy him a pint at the pub. Because why wouldn't you want to have a drink with Billy Mack? 

He was a charming bastard, of course, and the worst part of it was, it didn't matter once you found that out - you couldn't not fall for the charm every time.

Things simply worked out for Billy, and Joe had long since stopped wondering why. He just knew that Billy had something to give, and Joe was going to be the one to grab onto his shoulders and try to keep him going in at least somewhat the general direction they had planned upon. 

And Billy - affable, amiable, and whatever else you could come up with to describe someone you couldn't stay mad at - Billy had the unfortunate ability to take it one step further in a direction you couldn't possibly have counted upon. 

Billy was the guy out in front, making friends without even trying, buying a round for a whole bar, just because the juke box happened to be playing his latest song, and then another round, just because. Billy was someone you wanted to be around. You wanted to be able to make him grin. And Billy was crazy, yeah, and consistently took it so far past the line you couldn't see it from where he ended up. Which was maybe how he got so far into the drug scene before most people noticed that something was, actually, wrong. That it wasn't just partying, that it wasn't just Billy being _Billy_ \- partying rock star who could never go too far, because what was there that could contain him? 

And through it all, Joe was there. Joe, working the producers in the background, getting Billy decent deals, making them stick to the contracts signed with Billy's almost illegible scrawl. Joe, getting Billy from one gig to the next. Joe, who was the one who noticed, first, that Billy wasn't just partying a little too much, but was, in fact, seriously fucked up. Joe, who was pretty much the only one who noticed or cared when Billy walked out of the final rehab stint, clean and sober and - thankfully - still very, very much the Billy Mack Joe loved. 

Boring, Billy Mack wasn't. And maybe that was why Joe stayed with him.

Eh, that, and the fact that Joe hadn't exactly been getting any younger, either, in all the years and decades he had stuck with Billy. 

It was - it had been, for years, now - the two of them against the world. Well. Joe against the world, working for Billy, and that was close enough to the same thing. And while Joe had known that, in a vague sort of way, it had never really hit him until Billy showed up at his place, instead of over at Elton John's pad of luxury. Joe hadn't expected Billy to spend Christmas Eve with him - he'd learned a long, long time ago, too many years to count, that to expect anything from Billy Mack was to be...not disappointed, but to exist in a sort of constant state of surprise and/or terror. 

Billy did whatever it was Billy wanted to do - always had, which was how his career ended up on the skids in the first place, and was also how it had ended up coming back in this spectacular turn of events that would have been stunning if you hadn't spent twenty-five years watching Billy Mack turn shit into gold (and sometimes the other way around). 

So they did, in fact, get drunk together and watch porn, for a while, before finally ending up on the roof of Joe's building at around 2AM, passing a bottle of whiskey back and forth between them. They were lay there on their backs on the freezing asphalt of the roof, but Joe was drunk enough not to be bothered by it. The city was quiet from up here, and you could even see a few stars, glimmering dimly through the London smog. 

Billy had, by that point, taken to pontificating on the origins of the universe - in particular, the origin of truly tragic music by inexperienced, untalented, and unattractive boy bands. 

Billy'd just about traced it back to street-side accordion and monkey music but Joe was only half-listening. The whiskey was good and the company was - well, he'd had worse. Billy tilted his head to watch as Joe skillfully managed to raise the nearly-empty bottle to his mouth and drink some without spilling any. He wound down on his diatribe and they lay there quietly for a few moments, the whiskey making the world soft and pleasantly blurry. 

"Not a bad night," Joe offered, after a while.

Billy tilted his head to look over at Joe. "Merry Christmas, you fat bastard."

"Merry Christmas, you has-been," Joe replied warmly.

Billy grinned widely, and passed him the whiskey. "My heart," he said, settling back against the cement with his hands clasped on his chest, "is full."

"Your heart is full of whiskey." Joe settled back too, crossing his hands behind his head. 

"True," Billy said agreeably, and Joe smiled up at the sky. The London stars were pretty and bright, and maybe that was the whiskey, too, but he found, upon reflection, that he was quite all right with that.

"Cheers," he said, gesturing vaguely in Billy's direction with the whiskey bottle.

"Cheers," Billy said softly up to the night sky.

* * *

Jamie wasn't a writer. He wasn't a husband. He wasn't the sort of man he'd thought he'd end up being. He felt like he'd been distracted for years, by life, by writing things that didn't want to be written, by loving a woman who didn't want to be loved - or, well, not to be loved by him, at least. 

And that moment of bizarre, absolute clarity on Christmas Eve, standing there clutching his parcels and surrounded by fairy lights and his family's smiling faces, was dizzying. He had to go - _had_ to, right then, because it was the first thing in a million years that made any sense to him at all, and he felt this weird sort of desperation - that if he didn't hold onto it, that realization of the one thing he absolutely _must do_ , then he'd lose it. That he'd slip back into that vagueness of his everyday life filled with bad decisions and reheated take-away curries. 

And after everything - the race to the airport, the trouble with the taxis, the walk through the streets with the crowd behind him, something he was only dimly aware of - after all of that, when he was finally there, where his moment of clarity had taken him, he knew. Aurelia 's smile from the second level of the restaurant on Christmas Eve felt like the answer to every question he'd ever asked.

It wasn't until quite a bit later that he realized he didn't know what the fuck he was doing. It didn't make it a bad decision, not in the least, not at all, but he had asked her to _marry_ him, was the thing. Getting _married_ , when they didn't know each other at all. It was crazy, is what it was, it was sheer _lunacy_ , is what it really, really was. And if only he could ring someone, get some input on this, get his head on straight, he'd be fine, he'd be _fine_.

Only it was late on Christmas Eve, and he was in France, and his bloody mobile didn't even get a signal at Aurelia's house - which was, of course, where they were spending Christmas Eve night. Because spontaneous romantic gestures were all well and good, yes, but the lack of planning was kind of a big side effect of the whole thing.

So after the - spectacularly well-executed, if he did say so himself - romantic gesture at the restaurant, there were _logistics_ to be handled. There were real-life, down-to-earth things that needed to be handled. A place to stay, for one, and Christmas Eve, in a small town like this - they weren't going to find a place to stay anyway, even if Aurelia's family would even hear of such a thing.

They had made their way back to Aurelia's father's house - her sister eyeing him suspiciously the whole way, tugging her sweater closed over her prodigious bosom as though he was some bizarre sort of Peeping Tom - and that was, perhaps, when he started to have his panic attack. _Minor_ panic attack. Because everyone was talking - talking over each other, talking quickly and in lingo he hadn't yet learned, and he could catch, maybe, the gist of the conversation, but beyond that he was left well in the dust. He could feel Aurelia's small and slightly sweaty hand clutching his as she talked to her father and her sister, and sent glances his way, nervously, checking on him, as though seeing if he was going to, perhaps, take back the marriage offer and run.

He was fairly well into panic mode by the time they got home, smiling tightly as Aurelia took his coat, hung it up, talking faster and louder at both her father and her sister, until she finally, apparently, won the argument and - smiling triumphantly at Jamie - shooed the both of them up the stairs to bed. Aurelia's sister and father both were gesturing in the air and casting glances behind them as the ascended the stairs with their similarly heavy treads.

The first floor of the house, once they were safely ensconced upstairs, was almost deafeningly quiet. Jamie felt the tension ease in his chest as Aurelia turned to him, and drew a theatrical hand across her forehead, wiping away pretend sweat. "A relief," she said, and there it was, that smile she had, that heartbreaking smile that took his breath away - literally, took it away, stolen from him, so that he had to drop down to sit, suddenly, on the couch in their living room. "My family," she said, gesturing towards the stairs. "They are - shy."

Jamie nodded vaguely, _yes, yes, why, she must be mad,_ several times before he saw her teasing smile. He sank back on the surprisingly soft, and comfortable, couch, an equally theatrical hand to his own forehead. "I was fearing that they were intimidated by me," he said, keeping a serious face, and she shook her head, smiling, still, and my god, she was so, so beautiful.

She got him a glass of wine that he needed quite badly, and one for herself. And alone, together, finally, they were talking - each one of them slow, each one of them stilted, but oh, there was time, finally time together, where they could be patient and listen and understand - slowly, but still. She excused herself, to go get changed out of her work clothes, and "Of course, yes, yes," Jamie said, but - they could neither of them break the conversation. She was half out of the room as they talked, and then she was back on the couch, without ever actually having left, letting her hair out of its elastic band. It fell down around her shoulders in a way that made Jamie so very badly want to press her back against that soft couch and kiss her, kiss her.

She smiled at him, looking up through her eyelashes, and she knew, he thought. Knew what he wanted to do, and his cheeks were hot, but so were hers, and they were so, so fine together.

They sat there, on the couch, talking until late, until the stars outside were as bright as streetlights, until they hush of the night had them dropping their voices as they moved closer on the couch, holding hands, every touch tentative, every word soft and careful, every look between them more charged than anything he had ever, ever had before.

The wine gone, the night so late, his eyes fastened to her, Jamie said, "Aurelia. Aurelia, I do - that is -" and lining the words up in his head so that they came out right, he said, in her own tongue, "Eu te amo," hoping to get it right.

And she said, slow and careful, "I love you, too," in _his_ own tongue, and then against his mouth, and then into his mouth as he - helplessly - pressed her back, kissing her and kissing her, and it was nothing like the hundred times he had imagined this, thought of this, dreamed of this - nothing like it at all, because he could not, could _not_ have known this, the beating of her heart in her chest, up against his, his lips against hers, her body underneath him, as she said, over and over again, "Yes. Yes. Yes."

* * *

Juliet told Peter everything, of course. She came back upstairs, bemused and shivering, and when he looked at her and said, "What was that?," she told him. About Mark, and her visit to him a few weeks back, and the movie he'd taken at the wedding, all of her. About the music that wasn't carolers, and about the signs, and about how she'd run after him and kissed him afterwards. 

She told him, because that was what they did, together, her and Peter - they shared their lives, and this wasn't something you left out. And Peter had loved Mark for longer than he had loved Juliet - Mark had been part of Peter's life since nursery, since forever - and if Peter hadn't known quite absolutely about how Mark felt about Juliet, it wasn't truly a surprise, either. 

He wasn't angry - not _really_ \- and if he got up and paced back and forth a little, and scowled, a little, and yelled, some, who could blame him? Juliet sat curled up on the couch, holding a pillow against her chest, and watched him, letting him work through it. Peter loved Mark - she was as sure of that as she was of the fact that she loved Peter.

Peter wasn't a stupid man. He finally threw himself to the couch beside her, arms crossed over his chest. "Well," he said crossly, looking over at her there on the couch beside him, "who _wouldn't_ fall in love with you?"

"And it's not as if he didn't try his best to keep me at arm's length," Juliet offered, running her hand down Peter's arm.

"Didn't quite follow through on that, though, did he?" But Peter settled back further into the couch and leaned into her touch.

"You didn't actually give him much of a chance." Juliet was smiling as she said it, and when Peter shrugged his shoulders half-heartedly, it turned into a grin.

They would be okay. They all would. Peter wasn't a stupid man, and he did, after all, love them both.

* * *

Gavin's only job was as bodyguard. He wasn't to judge the actions of the Prime Minister, or to get in his way. He was only to allow him to go about the business of being Prime Minister, so long as he did not put himself in danger. And, yes, perhaps the going from house to house might heighten the average of finding the one deranged person looking for an opportunity to harm the Prime Minister, but - it was Christmas Eve in Wandsworth, and truth be told, Gavin had damn fine reflexes. He stayed at the ready and felt certain he could have taken on any of the individuals they found at home this evening, even all three of the miniature princesses who begged for a song.

It wasn't Gavin's place to judge, or even to observe, or, strictly speaking, to sing, but he was, after all, the Prime Minister's back-up. It seemed only right to join in on the carol. 

Gavin did not look in the rear-view mirror en route to the school, even when he was accidentally hit in the head by one of the flailing octopus tentacles. He did not look, and he did not listen, but he found himself relieved, rather than nervous about the complete lack of security preparation, when the Prime Minister made the rather hasty decision to follow Ms. Natalie into the school. 

They used the rear entrance, Gavin kept a strict eye out, and while it wasn't his place to judge, not at all, he did, in this one instance, approve. 

* * *

Karen never confronted Mia. In her more lucid moments, she thought, _What good would it do?_ and _She's not the one who's married, after all._

And yet Karen's New Year's Eve day was spent sitting in the parked car outside of Harry's work, clutching the steering wheel with hands that were numb and freezing at the same time, despite the blasting heat that was hard at work keeping the car windows unfogged. She sat there, tense, calling herself all manner of idiot and moron and stupid, stupid woman living up to every stereotype there was. Wasn't she? Couldn't help herself, could she, only of course she _could_ help herself, pull herself together, go home and stop behaving like a - 

There she was.

Mia. Coming out of the office, in a winter coat that fit her too well to be anywhere near warm enough. She looked calm, and together, and young, young, young. A single glimpse was enough - more than enough - and Karen fumbled with the keys still hanging from the ignition. She took a deep breath, staring down at her lap, focusing, stilling herself, breathing. Then she started the car, carefully. Indicated, the gentle ticking sound feeling somehow comforting. Pulled out, carefully. Graciously, even. Made her way back home, stopping at every stop sign, every yellow light, careful, focused. Aware of the fact that if she let go even for a second, she'd very likely never find her way back home. 

Who was she, to be even thinking like this? No. No. Home, first. Then - whatever came next.

It was only after - carefully - pulling into the driveway, turning off the ignition, and placing the keys on her lap, it was only then that she let it take her over. She was shaking as though she was palsied, and weeping, weeping, only - it wouldn't come. She had been so certain it was tears she was holding back, so certain that if she eased up for an instant - but no, apparently not.

And that was that, wasn't it? She pulled herself up straight and flipped down the visor, pushing her hair back into place without ever once focusing on the reflection that looked back at her, calmly. This wasn't about Mia, and it never had been, however large she had loomed in their lives. She wasn't married to Mia. She wasn't sure she was married to Harry, still, in her heart. 

She was sure only of two things: Daisy and Bernie. For right now, that was enough, and she was lucky to have them. She knew it, and she knew that Harry knew it, because he didn't have them right now, did he? They didn't question that Daddy was away on business for New Year's, even though they had always done New Year's together as a family - she worked hard at keeping them distracted, with hot cocoa and biscuits from before Christmas which were only slightly stale, something which bothered the children not at all. They watched musicals on TV and she let them get riled up and sing and dance along, and she sang and danced with them, because she wouldn't, would _not_ let the antics of the stupid, stupid man who was their father ruin this for any of them.

They rang in the new year banging pots and pans outside the back door, the midnight air frigid, and the children's excited calls of " _Happy New Year!_ ," breaking the brittle silence of the late-night neighborhood.

It wasn't until afterwards, when she hustled them into bed, covering them up snugly with duvets up to their chins, a kiss to their foreheads, and a warning to sleep, now, or else - that she let herself even think about it. It wasn't until after all of that - an evening of holding it together which wasn't as exhausting as you might think - this was her job, after all, this was part of who she was, she was a mother first and everything else had to come second. And maybe that was something that Harry had never understood, even though she'd thought he had. Thought they were on the same page, here, thought they were doing well, even, and better than some, definitely. 

She knew it was stupid, and she knew he regretted it, but regrets did not erase things, did they? Regrets didn't undo things. Harry was the one who undid things, who undid everything, who with one stupid, stupid move had crumpled up their years of marriage into something she didn't want to even look at now, something she wasn't entirely certain she could ever look at the same way ever again.

She poured herself a glass of wine, then, an expensive red she'd been sort of saving for some special occasion that never actually seemed to occur. She drank it slowly, standing over the kitchen sink and looking out the window - the light from inside making it opaque, impossible to see outside. She mostly saw the reflection of lights and tinsel from behind her, lining the doorway to the kitchen in its festive way. She saw the gleam of fairy lights off of the glass as she lifted it to take a sip of the full, rich wine, savoring it in her mouth without really thinking about it, because that's what you did, wasn't it? You savored things; you held them close to your heart. You took care of the things that fed your soul. You were careful not to let them crumple.

She finished the glass, and poured another, and took both it and the rest of the bottle with her to the couch in the living room. She settled herself in under a warm blanket, a book close to hand, the remote to the television not far away, the room, the house, empty and silent. She didn't weep, then, for it was a new year. 

Start as you mean to go on, is what she was thinking as she lifted the glass of wine in a silent toast to the coming year. 

The End

 


End file.
